‘Well, I’ve been waiting six weeks for you to give me a phone call.’
‘A phone call?’
‘A telephone call.’
‘Who do you want to call?’
‘Who am I gonna… I just want my call.’
‘To speak to who?’
‘I’m going to call my wife, of course. I’m gonna tell her not to wait for me.’
‘What do you mean, not wait?’
‘If it’s seven years I don’t want her to wait. I mean, seven years, it’s too long. She should move on, find someone else.’
At this point Popov’s nostrils flare, he grips the edge of the table and splutters, ‘What? You can’t do that!’
‘Well, I can’t have a woman wait for me for seven years.’
‘No, no, no! The family, Dimitri. The family is the most important thing we have. No, you can’t do that. Come on, they’re going to be letting you out in two weeks’ time, what are you talking about?’ His eyes dart around the room until they fall onto one of the guards. He waves furiously, motioning for the man to step forward. ‘You, yes you, make sure Dimitri sees the psychologist. He’s becoming delusional, these things he’s saying are extraordinary. He’s not feeling well, he’s… he’s not himself.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘It’s okay, you’ll see the psychologist. He’ll help you. Dear oh dear, telling your wife to go with another man. I’m afraid you’re losing your mind, my friend.’
‘I’m not. Really.’
Popov stubs out his cigarette and lights another. He examines Dima’s face for a moment then leans forward and with great reverence he says, ‘Tell me, have you ever read The Red-haired Horse?’
‘The Red-haired—’
‘Oh dear, Dimitri. My dear Dimitri, you have to read The Red-haired Horse.’
‘Okay. It’s a book?’
‘About the Cossacks. True nationalists. Aaaah the Cossacks. I’m actually a Cossack myself.’ He points at the guard. ‘You. Do we have The Red-haired Horse in the library here? We do? Aaaah, very good. Okay, well make sure Dimitri has it in his cell tomorrow.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘You’ve got to read it. It’s a great book.’
‘Okay, yeah, sure.’
‘Good.’
‘Okay then.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Yes.’
‘It really is a great book.’
‘Fantastic.’
Popov nods then takes a deep breath. ‘Well, Dimitri, we can’t chat like this all day. Back to the punishment cell for you.’
‘Yup.’
Popov sucks on his cigarette and shrugs. The guard taps Dima on the shoulder, he gets to his feet and is led out of the office and back down the corridor towards the kartser. The knot in his stomach is tight, his heart is beating fast. This prison is run by a psychopath, he thinks, and I’m not sure if he loves me or hates me.
He’s pushed into the punishment cell, the door closes, and he stands in the silence for a few minutes, confused, scared, alone. Then a key turns and the door opens.
‘Come on, you’re going back to the boss.’
‘What?’
‘He’s not finished with you yet.’
Barely a quarter of an hour after leaving, Dima is sat back in the same chair, across the table from Popov.
‘Cigarette?’
Dima nods. They spark up, drag deeply, exhale over each other’s shoulder. Popov taps his cigarette over the ashtray and says, ‘You know the FSB?’
‘Yeah… I mean, of course I do.’
‘Tricky guys.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Oh man, those guys are tricky. You really should listen to them, though, do what they ask. That’s the thing about co-operating with the investigators, it makes your life so much easier.’
‘Well—’
‘Don’t mess with them, Dimitri. For your own good, don’t be a hero. I know one of your guys is trying to be a hero, trying to take the blame for the attack on the platform. But really, what the fuck is he doing that for? I mean, everybody’s already giving evidence anyway, he should just relax. Yes, everyone’s singing now, telling the FSB who did what. No point in keeping schtum, eh? Everybody’s singing anyway.’
‘I’m not sure they are.’
‘Oh they are. Yes yes, they are my friend.’ He cocks his head to one side and sighs. ‘But I can end this for you. You do know that?’
Dima scratches his cheek.
‘Do you want me to end this for you, Dimitri?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can amnesty you from the kartser right now.’
‘Okay.’
‘So let’s do it,’ says Popov breezily. He opens a desk drawer and takes out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘You write here that you’re really sorry you broke the rules. You say it was your lawyer who forced you to do it, and we can all move on.’
‘I can’t write that.’
‘Well okay, just write that you’re really sorry, you’ll never do it again and we’ll date it so it looks like you wrote it yesterday.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
Dima thinks about it for a moment. He wonders if this is a trick, but by now he just wants to get away from this guy, so he scribbles down a few words – ‘I’m sorry I broke the rules about letters’ – and signs it, then spins the sheet of paper around and pushes it back to Popov. The governor claps his hands together and declares, ‘Okay, that’s it. Take him back to his regular cell.’
Dima twists his head and looks over his shoulder at the guard, like, is this guy for real? But the guard gives nothing away, instead he lays a hand on Dima’s shoulder and a moment later he’s being marched back down the corridor. His pink bag is handed to him, he swings it over his shoulder and he’s taken back to his cell. Vitaly jumps up and throws his arms around him, but Dima breaks away. His heart is racing; the knot is like a rock in his stomach now.
‘What happened? Dima, what happened to you?’
Dima hunches over a mug in the corner of the room, stuffs a fistful of tea into it, fills it with water and drops the immersion heater in. He lights a cigarette then turns to face his cellmate.
‘Vitaly, you’ve heard of the Gestapo, right?’
‘Sure.’
‘And you know they were the bad guys?’
‘Sure I do. Everyone knows the Gestapo were the bad guys.’
‘Okay, good.’
And the next day a book is pushed through the feeding hatch in the cell door and drops onto the floor with a slap.
The Red-haired Horse.
Dima forces himself to read it that night. He’s curious to know more about a work of such renown. It’s set in the Soviet-era revolutionary period. Cossack traditions. Poorly written. The biggest piece of trash he’s ever read.
TWENTY-THREE
30th October
I guess I had better start a diary, to try and remember all this shit. Had another useless exercise period. Again it was drizzling and the exercise cell was half undercover, and the half that was still frozen was in the drizzle. So I stood in the corner and did the French Chairs. Better than nothing. At 1330 they said my lawyer was here so I went down to see Alexander. They had been waiting to see me since 10am. That really really sucks and it’s just ball-breaking. I wonder if they are mad at Alexander for something? Anyway, no major changes, Alex confirmed they are trying to split us apart. That’s not good. Alex also thinks they may cook up another charge for me. But he thinks even if they do, they will let me go with the other non-activists. I think he is bullshitting me and I should prepare for the worst. But realistically it is unlikely they will keep anyone in to Sochi. I heard Monday at the investigators that there is already talk of protests at the Olympics if we are still held. Not boycott, but protests. I do not think Putin is going to want that. Around 1630 they came to get Sasha [his cellmate]. I do not think it was because of me and I think it was because he did too much screaming. But the cell feels lonelier than usual tonight.